Enchantment Vast but Foolish
by Starbrow
Summary: In which there is a great deal of very fine rum, Jill has hips, and Eustace is an oblivious yet alluring man of science. The third installment of a collaborative work with rthstewart and OldFashionedGirl95: "Stone Gryphon Everybody Lives, Nobody Dies AU"


This is part three of a collaboration for **rthstewart**'s _Stone Gryphon Everybody Lives, Nobody Dies _AU: The Eustace and Jill Arc. It follows her _Hung Out To_ _Dry_ and **OldFashionedGirl95**'s_ Bedraggled As I Am._ I very highly recommend that you read both of those first; otherwise, this story will not make much sense! Huge thanks to both these wonderful ladies; we've had so much fun working on all of this together. After this, stay tuned for **rthstewart**'s next fic in the chain, tentatively titled "Winning His Spurs."

* * *

_"Far beneath  
My holier passion, in their eyes and ears  
Enchantment vast but foolish lingereth."  
_H. G. Dixey, "Sonnet on Oxford"_  
_

_I know a little Druid wood _  
_Where I would slumber if I could _  
_And have the murmuring of the stream _  
_To mingle with a midnight dream, _  
_And have the holy hazel trees _  
_To play above me in the breeze, _  
_And smell the thorny eglantine; _  
_For there the white owls all night long _  
_In the scented gloom divine _  
_Hear the wild, strange, tuneless song _  
_Of faerie voices, thin and high _  
_As the bat's unearthly cry, _  
_And the measure of their shoon _  
_Dancing, dancing, under the moon, _  
_Until, amid the pale of dawn _  
_The wandering stars begin to swoon... _  
_Ah, leave the world and come away!_  
C. S. Lewis, "Night II"

* * *

The sign flew by. _Welcome to Stamford, CT!_

"Only an hour or so to go," Eustace said, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen between them since leaving Boston and the Clarks that afternoon.

Jill shifted beside him in the bench seat of the Ford. "We could stay at Mum's flat, if you'd like. She's left a key for me at the office."

Elizabeth Pole's flat would no doubt be far more luxurious than his own, but Eustace shook his head. "I've got to develop the Drumheller reels and send them off straightaway. And I doubt your mum wants my gear cluttering up her place."

"She's used to my things cluttering up the place," said Jill, contemplating the sketchbook that was, as always, on her lap. "And I'm nearly as bad as you."

This was quite true. Just then, his stomach grumbled at him, loudly. Jill snickered. "Want to stop somewhere?"

"Let's press on to Manhattan. I know just the thing..."

An hour later, they reached the city and he found the little hole-in-the-wall pizza joint in the Upper West Side he'd had in mind, 10 cents a slice. "Might as well get a whole pie and have leftovers for tomorrow," she said sensibly. Good old Pole. Always up for anything, whether it was a road trip to the middle of nowhere or a New York pizza.

His flat was littered with papers and journals and bits of rock and the occasional bone and rolls of film and a corkboard with pictures of dead things. "Just like home," said Pole brightly.

Eustace glowered at her, dumped their bags amid the clutter, and eyed the strata of books and paraphenalia on the kitchen table. One could practically start an archaeological dig on its surface. "The roof, then?"

"Let's."

They climbed up the fire escape to the rooftop and ate pizza and watched the lights of New York come on as darkness fell over the city. "I'll do the shopping tomorrow," Jill said at last, licking her fingers. She looked over at him, and her eyes twinkled mischievously. "You get to tackle the mess downstairs."

"I think I'd rather do the shopping," he muttered. "I know the best local shops - you don't know your way around this part of the city -"

She sighed. "Fine. Together then. But I'm not touching your papers! I'm still half deaf from the row last time I did that."

That was a perfectly splendid row, thought Eustace with a grin.

In the morning, she threw out the bits of mouldering cheese in the refrigerator and wiped the slime out of the icebox while he began the excavation on the top layer of papers around the flat. After a bit of bickering, they decided he would dust ("I'm not going _near_ the bones, Scrubb!" she had yelled) and she would sweep. By eleven o'clock, they were setting out for the Upper East Side shops, enjoying the brisk November air and bright sunshine, though Eustace was thinking wistfully of the negatives waiting for him back at the flat.

Pole kept gravitating toward the flower stalls. "Scrubb, smell this one."

"Smells like flowers." But he still bought a small bunch for her from the old hunched lady selling the flowers, who wished him and his missus a very pleasant afternoon.

They bought asparagus and lemons and cilantro ("Are you sure your spices are still fresh, Scrubb? Should we buy some new cloves?"), and fish (one of the few meats they could agree upon), and wine ("we'll have plenty of rum in Jamaica," said Jill when Eustace suggested his drink of choice). Even though they'd only be a few days in New York while he developed his film, they might as well eat well while they were there. That too was something they didn't even have to discuss.

The last stop was a bakery where they waited in line behind a woman with a long, complicated order that she listed off one item at a time, with pauses in between as the proprietor relayed the order to the young man in the kitchen. Halfway through, the process ground to a halt as the apprentice emerged from the kitchen and untied his apron, declaring, "I hate this job, I want out. You want I should quit now or you want I should wait two weeks?"

"I want you should wait two weeks!"

Eustace stifled a laugh.

"You make the loaves yourselves then," shouted the apprentice. "I am done!" And he stormed out.

"I still want fresh!" said the fussy customer in front of them. "I didn't schlep down here to buy stale!"

Eustace could see Pole hiding a smile.

So they toasted a loaf of day-old bread with the fish and asparagus and wine at dinner that evening. Then he shut himself once more in the bathroom with all his chemicals and undeveloped film. "I don't suppose a bath is a possibility tonight?" called Jill through the door.

"Don't count on it."

* * *

"Come on, Scrubb. You've been in there for nearly three days straight. You promised to show me around the museum."

"Fine! Don't touch the -"

"Yes yes yes! Let's go!"

At the American Museum of Natural History, he introduced her to the staff and played tour guide, lingering for hours in the dinosaur halls and rooms filled with stuffed, dead reptiles for hours until she pulled him away ("I _know_, Scrubb, the thingummy with the long Latin name could be studied for ages, but we have three more floors to see!")_._ In return, she took him to the Metropolitan, which Pole had been to several times but never with Eustace, and the Museum of Modern Art, where they both spent a great deal of time arguing over the merits of cubism, surrealism, and minimalism. Eustace thought Pole never looked so pretty as when she was fired up and shouting at him, and half the time he picked a fight just to see it.

She insisted on visiting Ellis Island before they left New York, and studied the pictures of the immigrants intently, almost as though she were looking for something, but when Eustace asked her what she was looking for, she shrugged and shook her head. "No one. They each have their own story, that's all."

* * *

At last, they sailed straight out of New York on a trim little boat bound for Jamaica. The cabin was tiny, but this in itself was no obstacle; they had no need for a second bunk. But Pole got so odd at times, like she wanted desperately to say something and _wouldn't_, and was as changeable as the November weather upon the open waters. He had noticed these mood swings in Quebec, and chalked it up to one of those times when one did not ask a woman what was the matter ("nothing!" was all he would get for his pains).

But then she would clam up suddenly in Boston, like when Lucy asked him to tell the story of Mary and Peter and Asim and the close encounter with the alligator. The Clarks had laughed and joked about boats and camels and Mary needling Peter when there was a perfectly good net under Mary's seat the whole time. Even Eustace had to admit that it was funny, but Jill looked uncomfortable and said nothing. Or at the Natural History museum in New York, when one of the curators mentioned his recent publications with Mary Russell, and Jill made a hasty retreat into her sketchbook.

The close quarters only made these mood swings more apparent to him. But of course, Eustace knew better than to ask her outright what was on her mind. He wouldn't get the truth out of her that way. So he asked her to draw instead. He picked the most revelatory thing he could think of. "Draw home," he urged.

Jill contemplated the blank page in front of her. "Which one?"

"The real one."

And so Pole drew pages upon pages, little things from her flat in Quebec, the rays of light through her studio window, the dancing streetlights of the city. But these weren't quite right, she said. So she drew the quaint peaks of her parents' house in Cambridge, the one she grew up in, before tucking the pages to the back of her portfolio. _Not home either?_ No, not quite.

What was left? Eustace would have been hard pressed to answer the question himself, had anybody asked him (and nobody had). A decade of near-constant travel left you never sure whether you were coming or going. Some, like Mary, thrived on it (like Richard had). Most, though, settled down eventually into a comfortable pattern of lecturing during the academic year and going on digs during the holidays. With a weather eye toward his approaching 25th birthday, Eustace was loathe to acknowledge that he would eventually join their ranks. The offer letter from Oxford kept burning a hole in the back of his desk. Eustace had to admit, it would be nice to have a place to call _home,_ and not just a hotel room or a hammock strung between two trees or a flat he lived in perhaps two weeks out of the year. But he did love the field, and the thought of settling down in Oxbridge and slowly turning into his father made him shudder.

With little to do on ship but walk the deck and talk (when Jill was in a talking mood), Eustace spent a good deal of time with his notes from Drumheller spread out all over the cabin. Jill insisted that he put them in manageable stacks at night ("it's too small in here to live with you _and_ your endless papers, Scrubb!"). Small though it was, the cabin had a coziness to it, though, that his nights in the Everglades and the Badlands had lacked. Those first few nights took some adjusting to the size of the bunk and the irritating narrowness of the blanket provided—the years had not improved Pole's inclination to hog the covers whenever she could. But back to back with Pole was just right—the closest to home he was going to get for a while.

Somehow the third night, she ended up curled against his back, arm thrown over his side and clutching his nightshirt. Eustace twisted toward her, trying to make out her expression in the dim moonlight. He didn't try to kiss her—no use, after Quebec—and she sighed and turned toward the tiny window of the cabin, away from him again. "Pole?"

"Go to sleep, Scrubb."

He didn't, not for a long time.

* * *

The next day she was buried in her sketchbook, settling it between her knees and her lap while she worked. She wouldn't let him see it. This was unusual for Pole.

"Come off it. I won't laugh. I won't even joke about it." For some reason, Eustace very much wanted to see what she was working on, whatever she was taking pains to hide so carefully with closed portfolio every time he approached.

Pole shook her head. She stared down at the paper, a shadow falling over her face, then set her mouth and ripped the page out of the sketchbook and crumpled it. "It's rubbish."

* * *

"Do you miss her?"

It took him a few moments to realize who she was talking about. Eustace shifted against her back. The darkness was a safe haven for his honest answer, as it had been for her question. "Not really. Not the real her. Just the thoughts of what might have been."

Pole pressed in more closely.

* * *

They were making their way into warmer waters now. Eustace thought hard and finally asked Pole to draw her home in Jamaica for him. This was the right thing to ask. He always knew when she was happy or inspired, when her gaze was far-away whenever not focused on her work, and when she would give a breathless huff of laughter to herself over her new-found muse, unaware that anyone noticed it. Eustace noticed lots of things about her, things that probably most people would think irrelevant, but it was part of his job description to notice things that might seem irrelevant, in search of clues that might later be very relevant. Or might not, but one could never tell.

Besides, he liked watching Pole work. Her methods were completely different than his. Rather, her lack of methodology was completely different. She would stare off into space for a time, then attack the page with the pencil for a few strokes, shake her head, mutter and scribble at a section, and bite her lip as she examined the resulting shapes carefully. The chaos of her approach was delightfully foreign to Eustace, and he was drawn, as surely as moths to a lantern, by the irresistible energy of her latest passion.

Pages upon pages emerged, and this time she actually showed them to him. Some were filled with landscapes of lush vegetation and flowering bushes (although she grew huffy when he wanted to know the genera of the exotic plants and she could only tell him the common names). Others showed white sloping beaches or thickly forested mountains, low and staggering out to sea.

And on the next page, amidst well-clipped shrubs and waving palms, rose the clean tall lines of an old plantation-style mansion, stately and unchanged by the passage of time. Shutters lined the many windows, and pillars supported a long porch that ran the length of the house. For all its grandeur, he could tell it was a home. On the last page, Pole had even drawn a little girl running up the little stone path that wound through the gardens and to the back door of the house, one with familiar curls and light footsteps. The one made him smile.

Nights grew less cold the closer they got to the tropics, and the winds less bitter; that, Eustace supposed, was a very practical advantage to wintering in the Caribbean. As they sailed into the bright blue waters of the islands, the sea breezes turned gentle and warm, and the days sunny and clear, and by the time they reached the bay at Kingston, Eustace concluded that this was as close to a Christmas in paradise as he could reasonably hope for.

He was used to extremes: the suffocating heat and humidity of the Everglades, the blistering sun and dust of the desert, the cold desolation of nights in the Badlands. Here, everything was wonderfully pleasant and scenic, from the palm trees and vegetation lining the shore to the white sands of the beaches and neat low-lying buildings beyond the harbor. He was not used to his environment being so comfortable.

They watched by the railing as the ship docked; at least, Jill watched, and Eustace made a show of watching while all the while sneaking glances at her. She was so very clearly glad to be coming home. It was written all over her face, the tilt of her head, the clench of her knuckles around the railing, the lean of her body toward the dock and all that lay beyond. He wondered what it would be like, having a place to come home to with such anticipation. He certainly did not feel that way about England, or New York, or any of the places where he had made temporary habitation.

Several hours later, after unloading and gathering their luggage and passing through customs in Kingston, they were in a cab and on their way to Whitehall, the town where her family home was closest to. Eustace had not seen the Poles in several years, but Jill had caught him up in bits and pieces on the journey. "Mum's very keen on her latest editorial — speaking of which, you should stop by next time you are in New York and say hello. She might even be able to introduce you to Henry Luce."

"Oh?" Eustace raised an eyebrow at her. "That's right. I keep forgetting _Sports Illustrated_ is one of his many pet projects. Face it, Pole, that rag's no _Time._"

"Don't let Mum catch you saying that. She's very proud of her work there...even if she _is_ one of the backers and writes for a song. Someday, she says, it will be very successful..."

"When polo mania begins sweeping the Continent," said Eustace, grinning.

"And Dad, you may remember," continued Pole, ignoring his jibe, "is campaigning for Manley to win Chief Minister. So prepare for dinner conversations to be very political."

"Worse than at the Clarks?"

She gave him an amused look. "By far."

The cab dropped them off in front of a property with wrought iron fences, impeccably groomed shrubbery, clipped green lawns, and a cobbled path winding to the house in the distance. Eustace recognized the mansion from Jill's drawings. Without the advance warning, he might have been a little intimidated. Oh, he knew in theory that the Poles were filthy rich, but to see the evidence before him on such a tangible and grand scale was a different matter.

The Poles themselves, however, were no snobs, whatever their lifestyle might say to the contrary. Jill dropped her luggage and ran up the path to greet her parents who had appeared on the porch. Elizabeth, a smartly dressed woman who reminded Eustace strongly of Susan, hugged her tightly, and Julian pulled both wife and daughter into a strong embrace.

Eustace brought up the rear with all the luggage, and found himself clapped on the back and kissed on the cheek respectively by Julian and Elizabeth. "Dear boy, so glad you could make it," said Julian, his voice a warm rich baritone with a Jamaican cadence.

"I always know it's Christmas when everybody's together again," said Elizabeth, her own accent betraying her British and West Indies upbringing. Her arm was around Jill. "Welcome to our home, Eustace."

"It's splendid," said Eustace quite truthfully.

"It's a mess," said Elizabeth. "Julian has been holding political meetings here day and night, and I've only been back myself a few days."

Jill shook her head. "Oh Mum, we didn't come to see the house, we came to see _you_."

Julian took one of the bags from Eustace, and as they all trooped inside, Eustace couldn't help but think that any protestations about the state of the house were highly unnecessary. (Not to mention they must have an army of maids and housekeepers on hand.) Mahogany and marble, opulent and spotlessly clean, spread from floor to vaulted ceiling. It was impressive.

The Poles led them up the grand staircase in the center of the foyer to their rooms on the second floor. "I didn't expect you home so soon, Mum," said Jill. "Wasn't there a big polo match in Florida this week?"

Elizabeth looked arch. "Last week, and I wired the last edits to New York just before the trip here. Henry is very accommodating; I have more than a month's leave for Christmas." She glanced over at her husband, and her expression softened. "I was ready to come home."

Jill had her old room, of course, and Eustace was shown to a guest room two doors away. "I shall leave you two to manage any further arrangements," said Elizabeth with a sly smile.

"And the less I know about that, the better," added Julian.

Eustace found himself, for once, with nothing to say.

* * *

The next week flew by in a haze of luxurious lie-ins in the morning (Pole at his back, of course, as her parents had made this comforting arrangement so convenient for them) and even more luxurious occupations throughout the day. Feeling like a king or at the very least a wealthy gentleman of leisure, Eustace fell easily into the routine: enjoying a late breakfast on the veranda, milling about the house or by the swimming pool during the hot hours of the day, playing games of croquet and bocce on the lawn in the cooler late afternoon, sitting in on the occasional People's National Party meeting in the parlor, drinking very fine bottles of rum in the evening while exchanging tales with the Poles of recent doings and ventures. And late into the night, he would slip into Pole's room and curl wordlessly against her back in the deepest sleep he'd had in months, though the oversized mattress was almost _too _soft for comfort.

Occasionally he would wake up to find that he had rolled over on his side, facing Jill, his front to her back, a position she rarely slept in for some reason. In those early hours of the morning, enjoying the warmth of the soft linen sheets and the luxury of not having to get up any time soon, Eustace would find himself sleepily stroking her shoulder, admiring the contrast of her glowing skin against her snowy nightgown in the pale morning light, and feeling her soft form nestled against him, before falling asleep once more and waking to an empty bed and Pole popping in and out of the room.

She introduced him to all of her cousins and aunts and uncles, who dropped by throughout the week to say hello to the winter arrivals and meet the "famous English paleontologist," a title which made Eustace squirm inwardly — he was not famous _yet! _— and Jill grin and rattle off his latest articles as if she was very much enjoying herself. Somehow he managed not to make a terrible impression on Pole's family — "honestly, Scrubb, they _adored_ you! Stop being such a wet blanket!" — and concluded he liked them all very well indeed as well.

Julian in particular seemed to take a liking to him, taking him on tours of the island in the Rolls Royce, and Eustace admitted to himself it was rather flattering to be chumming about the Jamaican countryside with an international cricket star. Julian, however, seemed less keen on telling stories of his own exploits and more interested in Eustace's own work: how he got into the field of paleontology, who he'd studied with, where he'd traveled to over the years. To his surprise, Eustace found himself mentioning Mary's name, as it came up, with only the slightest pang. More often, he was eager to talk about his career with someone who listened out of more than politeness or duty, and it made him feel somehow proud to hear Jill's father commend him for this finding or that publication.

This new openness was not entirely comfortable. One evening before dinner, as they watched Elizabeth and Jill take their shots at the croquet hoops that sloped toward the woods, Julian put his hand on Eustace's shoulder. "You look at her the way I look at my Elizabeth, you know."

Eustace stared at him. "Who?"

"Jill, of course."

"_I_ do? Sorry, I'm afraid I don't follow you..."

"Eustace, the heart tells the truth when the mind doesn't want to. You will realize this someday. Soon, I think."

For the second time in as many weeks, Eustace was dumbfounded by Julian Pole.

Several hours and even more shots of rum later, he worked up the courage to make some sort of a reply. It was an unusual occurrence to find Julian alone about the premises this late at night; in the waning hours of the evening, the Poles were either together or retiring for the night. He would not have thought them the early-to-bed sort, but Jill had just shifted uncomfortably when he'd brought it up. "Scrubb, that's my mum and dad! I don't want to know about those sorts of things!"

This evening, though, the dreaded wedding party had descended on the house, a flock of giggling, chattering strangers who kept going on about dresses and cakes and such. In the end, Elizabeth and Jill had jetted off to Kingston in the Rolls Royce, in the company of several other women whose connection to the Poles Eustace was not entirely sure of — cousins? friends? long-lost relations? — and left the men to amuse themselves as they chose. Julian thought this a fine time to break open the "good rum," as he put it, and pass it round the firepit in the backyard.

Eustace, who had not known till now that the rum _could_ get any better, stared off into the fire and let his mind wander during the lulls in the conversation. He thought of nights aboard the _Dawn Treader_, swilling wine and rum with Edmund and Lucy and Caspian, and of bonfires in the middle of snowy forests, and, unexpectedly, of Pole. _Why Pole?_

He must have had an odd expression, for Julian was looking curiously at him. Warm from the fire and a little tipsy, Eustace said the first thing that popped into his head. "Do you ever miss her? Your wife, I mean, being gone so much and all. Never mind. Pole — er Jill — would say that was a prying question..."

"Lucky for you she isn't here, then. I'm used to all sorts of prying questions. I miss my Beth dearly when she's away. But it makes it all the sweeter when we are together once more. And we are happier for it, because I know she is doing what she loves and will always come back to me."

Somehow, this made a great deal of sense to Eustace, even though it was a foreign concept to him. His parents certainly had never been in any hurry to be together; just the opposite, actually. And they never spent time together talking or relaxing or _playing _the way Julian and Elizabeth Poles might not have a conventional marriage, but that didn't matter. Wars and travels and careers and the passing years had not diminished their love for each other. Interesting thought, that.

Eustace shook himself. He was getting as bad as Lucy. Going soft in his old age. Lucky indeed that Pole was nowhere nearby to laugh at his romantic indulgence.

* * *

By the next afternoon, the women were back, with large lumpy packages and bags in tow. "Of course, knowing Mum, we couldn't _just_ get our things for the wedding," said Jill confidentially. "We cleaned out half of Kingston's shops." She was pulling various bits of clothing from the bags and displaying them with a roll of her eyes at Eustace, who was sprawled lazily across her bed.

He nodded sympathetically. It sounded like torture.

Pole picked up another bag. "Oh yes, and some for you too. For the wedding." She tossed the package to him.

Eustace caught it and peered in warily. "Won't I be a bit of an interloper? It's not as if I have an invitation..."

"Nonsense. The whole town is coming. It would be rude _not_ to come. This isn't an English wedding, Scrubb."

He sighed loudly. He knew he would give in in the end.

"Fancy a swim? Mum insisted we get bathing costumes too."

Well, that was easier than arguing with her. Eustace reflected that he was getting lazy in his old age as well. Usually, he liked nothing more than a good row with Pole.

He rapidly revised this opinion a few minutes later, poolside, watching the batik wrap she was wearing flutter away to display the latest Kingston fashion in bathing costumes. Eustace could not have told you anything about what it looked like, only that Pole had remarkably long legs, a very well-defined bone structure, and an unmistakably feminine silhouette, which the close-fitting and miniscule suit showed off to great advantage. Yes, he decided. Most definitely better than a good row.

* * *

"This one categorizes the plant as _Persicaria orientalis_ of the _Polygonaceae_ family, while the other guide here lists it as _Polygonum orientale..."_

"Both of which are infinitely inferior to its true name," said Pole.

Eustace glanced up from the open books on Jamaican wildlife spread across his lap. If it were up to him, they would be stalking the island specimen of crocodile that according to his books lurked in every body of water bigger than a puddle here. ("Why didn't you tell me there were so many indigenous reptile species here, Pole?" he'd asked her their first day there. "I would have come to Jamaica a long time ago!")

She crossed her legs, picked up a pencil from the set beside her, and contemplated the purple flowering plant that hung in drooping arches over the garden lattice. "Just look, Scrubb. Aren't they beautiful?"

Eustace shrugged. "They look like flowers to me." He returned to the book's description, intrigued to learn the origins of the plant he had quizzed Pole so mercilessly about in her drawings of the garden, during the voyage to Jamaica.

"They're more than just their Latin name," insisted Pole. "Look at the way the sunlight hits the leaves right there, and makes the blossoms that brilliant violet color."

He took a second look, trying to imagine the foliage from the perspective of an artist. Yes, he supposed he could see how it would have a certain aesthetic charm and vibrancy to an artistic mind.

"Quite nice," he said with an effort.

"You remember, don't you? These were from my drawings. They're called Kiss Me Over the Garden Gate."

Jill returned to her sketching, and Eustace took a moment from his readings to watch her as she worked. Her pencil flew in long quick strokes over the page, catching the shape of the flowers, the cascading petals and riot of leaves. She picked up a coloured pencil and began filling in the purple blossoms. Her lips curved in a slow, dreamy smile.

Perhaps colloquial names were not so useless after all. Eustace edged a bit closer, the books forgotten. She looked immensely kissable right now. "Pole..."

"Hmm?" Her eyebrows lifted, but she didn't glance up, still consumed with the sketch. It was always the same, always the retreat just when he thought he was close to something. Like Quebec. Or Cambridge. Or a dozen times before that.

_Nothing has changed._ Eustace shook his head. "Good work, so far."

* * *

The peaceful languor of the after-dinner retreat to the back porch was interrupted that evening by the arrival of a visitor that he did not recognize, who was ushered to the gardens by the butler. Eustace stood up along with the rest of the Poles, and stood awkwardly as they quickly greeted the young man enthusiastically. Julian shook his hand, and Elizabeth kissed his cheek. Eustace frowned when Jill followed suit _and_ hugged the fellow tightly. Probably a cousin, with all this wedding business afoot.

"Eustace, this is Marcus, one of my oldest and dearest friends," said Jill, smiling broadly. "Marcus, Scrubb here kept me from going mad at Experiment House. When we left for Cambridge, you know."

"I remember you writing about him," said the newcomer, who was annoyingly tall and distinguished-looking. He reached for Eustace's hand and shook it. "A pleasure."

"Likewise," said Eustace, not at all sincerely. Pole was clinging to this Marcus chap's arm for quite a length of time; shouldn't she have let it go by now?

"Now we can all catch up," said Elizabeth gaily, waving Marcus to the chair beside Jill. Eustace smothered a groan. A perfectly good evening with the Poles wasted on an "oldest and dearest friend."

"I just got in from L.A., or I would have been over to see you before," said Marcus.

"Oh yes! How did the sessions go?"

"As well as ever," said Marcus, grinning. "Check the record stores this summer."

"How thrilling!" said Jill. "I am unspeakably proud of you. You've _made _it! Aren't you glad you didn't give up those trumpet lessons when we were kids?"

Eustace crossed his arms and felt like a fifth wheel as they chatted about Marcus's career as an up-and-coming jazz musician. This dashing stranger just had to have a dashing occupation, didn't he?

"You're coming to Esther's party tomorrow, of course," said Jill, smiling.

Eustace felt his eyebrows draw together. Was she inviting the bloke to go _with_ her? As her date? Or was this just another one of those Jamaican open invitations?

Marcus looked supremely satisfied with himself. "I wouldn't miss it."

Eustace suppressed a snort.

* * *

"Pole."

He heard a sigh and felt her stir against his back. "What, Scrubb?"

"Must I be civil to Marcus?"

He wished he could see her face. He waited a moment, blinking in the darkness and silence. Finally, she replied. "Scrubb, you're sleeping in _my _bed. I didn't say a word all those months with..."

She didn't finish her sentence. Eustace exhaled and clenched the blanket in his fingers. He wouldn't roll over and hold her. He wouldn't...

* * *

It was almost impossible not to have a good time at a party in Jamaica, even if one only knew three of the people there. Pole's Aunt Maria, as hostess and mother of the bride, made sure everyone had a well-filled plate and bottomless cup. Eustace manfully tried some of the curried goat which Pole assured him was a Jamaican staple at parties and holidays, though he preferred the sticky rice, roasted breadfruit, and sweet plantains, all of which were delicious. The rum, as always, was excellent.

There were quite a few aunts and uncles and cousins and cousins four times removed to be introduced to, but before long Eustace felt quite like one of them. Pole's relatives were a very gregarious lot, even more so than her parents, and the party was hopping all night with a calypso band and games on the lawn and impromptu dances breaking out here and there and toasts with jokes that made everybody groan.

Jill accepted Marcus's invitation to dance a second time, Eustace noted. They were doing the jitterbug, a dance he happened to know very well.

"Scrubb, isn't it? Come on, friend, show us what you've got." One of the Pole cousins, Antoine, was grinning at him and clapped him on the shoulder. "Go on, ask Pamela over there to dance."

Eustace spluttered, trying to refuse, but somehow he ended up next to Pamela, who was quite pretty and merry, and before he knew it they were stepping lightly beside the other couples. Jill caught his eye and smiled cheekily as he jitterbugged past her and Marcus.

* * *

In the days leading up to the wedding, the Pole women congregated in the kitchen whipping up various delicacies, and Eustace found himself milling about hopefully in the chance of being called to taste the resulting concoctions. The main thing they seemed to be baking were rum-laced fruitcakes, resulting in lots of half-empty bottles of spiced rum lying around, and this was also a good thing.

Aunt Louise, as the "wedden godmadda" — Pole explained that she was in charge of planning most of the wedding — had picked Pole to be in the procession of cakes on the morning of the wedding, when twelve girls would march through the streets to the wedden booth, carrying the cakes and chanting the news of the nuptials. (This, at least, explained the abundance of cakes.)

Pole came down late that morning from her room dressed in something long, white, and frothy, with white ribbons braided into her hair and white slippers. This seemed very bridal to Eustace. He eyed her with something like suspicion, trying to hide the frank admiration that he felt upon seeing her like this.

Pole gave a little laugh at his incredulous look. "Not England. Remember?"

Apparently _all_ the girls wore white, not just the bride.

When Eustace and the rest of the family walked to the village to join the procession as well, he found more proof that this was a thoroughly Jamaican wedding. The girls, lined up according to height and walking in pairs of two, were completing their rounds through the streets with the lace-covered cakes...balanced on their heads. Eustace couldn't help but laugh.

Antoine, who had fallen in next to him, grinned. "Let's hope they've all been practicing."

They all trooped down the streets till they arrived at the groom's house, where the "wedden booth" they'd made so much of turned out to be a hut constructed of coconut boughs and smelling strongly of rum. ("For the evil spirits, of course," said Antoine under his breath) Here the cakes were deposited, and it was on to the church.

Then the bridal procession appeared in the streets, with Pole's cousin Esther in the middle, and another very strange thing happened. Rather than cheering or singing, the assembled crowd began hurling insults at her. "Not looking so beautiful, love!" "Go back to your father's house and make yourself presentable!" "Couldn't get dressed up for your wedden day?"

The bride looked fine to Eustace. White dress, lots of lace, flowers, the usual. He looked at Antoine, who shrugged. "That's how the pageantry works. We tell the bride she needs more doodads, she goes back and puts more on, we wait for half an hour, and then the wedding starts." Sure enough, Esther turned and started walking back up the street, looking not the least bit distressed at the criticism.

The wedding itself at the church was quite traditional, but when they all went back to the wedden booth afterwards, that was when things got interesting. As cups of rum and sugar cane juice began circulating (Eustace sampled both, although the rum was more to his taste), a man started calling bids for the reveal of the main cake, still covered in a lace cloth, at the wedding table. After each bid, a guest would walk up and place money on the bidding plate, as a gift for the new couple, Eustace presumed. Finally, when the bids had reached a staggering amount, the wedden godmadda stood up and cried, "I bid that this beautiful cake be unveiled!"

She lifted the cloth to reveal the triple-layered rum cake underneath, and everybody ooh'ed and ahh'ed. Then she turned to the girls in white standing around the table and beckoned to Pole and another cousin. Eustace watched as they were given knives, stood on either side of the cake, and upon a nod from the godmadda, began hurriedly slicing the bottom layer. In a matter of seconds, Pole laid her knife down with a triumphant look. A chorus of giggles (from the women) and hoots (from the men) arose.

"Was that a race?" muttered Eustace to Antoine.

"Of a sort. Tradition says whoever finishes first will be the next to marry. Good for Jill."

Eustace frowned. Pole was rejoining the group of cake girls, who were giggling and shooting glances at, yes, of course, _Marcus._ But before he could say anything else (and very likely put his foot in his mouth), the wedding party was getting up and moving over to the lawn, along with the musicians carrying their instruments. The dancing was about to start.

"Speeches later," said Antoine with a grateful sigh. "Usually we'd be in for some very lengthy toasts right now. And some very bad jokes."

The musicians — a _mento _band, Eustace thought they were called — began playing a rhythmic tune which sounded like a mix of island beats and jazz harmonies. The bride and groom began a fast dance he was not familiar with — Jamaican, he assumed — and other couples soon joined them.

Accomplished dancer though he was, Eustace was not about to try his hand (feet?) at the unfamiliar number, particularly when he noticed Marcus was playing with the musicians, and Julian was asking Jill to dance. He could thus comfortably take a seat on the grass and enjoy a glass (or three) of rum, and watch the lively entertainment taking place on the lawn.

At the end of the song, the crowd disassembled and reassembled itself for the next dance. Jill flopped down beside Eustace on the grass. "And _that_," she said, panting a little, "is how the rest of the night will go! More or less."

"The rest of the night? How long does this sort of thing go on for?"

"Till dawn." Jill grinned at his incredulous look. "And it's considered rude to leave any earlier."

He eyed the glass of rum in his hand. It was nearly empty. He'd need a lot more before dawn.

There was something vaguely familiar about all of this: the rhythmic drumming, the singers and flutes, the dancers, the sun dipping low on the horizon. What did it remind him of?

Before he could think of it, Eustace saw Antoine and a young woman in white — oh yes, one of the cake girls — walking toward them. "Belinda, this is the famous paleontologist I mentioned, Eustace Scrubb," said Antoine, looking rather mischievous. "I'm sure he'd like a first-hand look at our dance customs."

Eustace blinked at them in alarm. The girl was looking at him with interest. "Paleontologist, not anthropologist. I study bones, not customs. I'm afraid I can't —"

"Oh, rubbish, Scrubb!" exclaimed Jill. "You're an excellent dancer. And the next one's a Charleston. Have a go of it, and Antoine and I shall take a turn too."

There was nothing for it. Eustace bolted the rest of the rum. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Why was Pole dancing with Marcus _so many times?_ Why didn't the band need a trumpet player anymore? Why weren't there more dances without partners? Why hadn't he stopped after the seventh glass?

Eustace had long since fled the circle of dancers when he could no longer bear the sight of Pole in her white gown and be-ribboned hair, looking for all the world like a bride, hand in hand with another man, or even worse, in a man's arms that wasn't him — _wasn't him? What the hell, Scrubb? _He'd never cared particularly about her dancing with other men, even in their school days. Why now? Just because she was the prettiest woman there? Or because she was looking at Marcus the way he wished she'd look at _him?_

Come to think of it, when _did_ Pole become so pretty? Surely she hadn't always been this pretty. It must be the wedding doodads. Yes, that was it. Every woman looked beautiful at a wedding. Except that somehow nobody except Pole seemed especially beautiful tonight. And Marcus certainly seemed to share his opinion.

Eustace stared darkly across the lawn. Even from here, he could see the way her partner was holding her, a too-bold hand on her hip. He clenched his fists. He could go over and cut in, and take the rest of the dance with Pole, so that it was _his_ hand on her hip, his arm around her waist. But she didn't want that. Not from him.

He should have stopped at seven.

Much later in the evening, the music came to a halt and the wedden godmadda got up to speak. "The time has come for the Kumina. We gather to dance and bless this marriage."

People started moving, a group of women assembling to one side, among them Pole and her aunts. Having fled to the safety of the lawn's edges long before, Eustace watched the dancers arrange themselves in a line and tie colorful overskirts around their waists. Several of them wore white — cake girls. Despite the haze of his slightly inebriated state, he could pick out Pole instantly from the group. Not only was she the prettiest, but she had a kind of _glow_ about her that none of the others have. But that might be the rum talking.

A rapid drumbeat began. Then the dancers started to move.

Since when did Pole have _hips? _

She was shimmying with small quick steps in time with the other women — at least, Eustace assumed they were all doing similar movements. He couldn't take his eyes off Pole. The fast alternating oscillations of her hips defied bone structure and natural human range of motion. Moreover, they gave rise to feelings that were entirely unscientific in nature. He couldn't entirely blame the sensation of warmth that was spreading over him on the rum.

Energetic twirls and arm wavings were added to the mesmerizing hip wiggles, and the rapid circling motions were making him think of something. What was it? He wracked his brain, while his eyes followed Pole's movements instinctively, tracked on the rhythm of her steps. The women were forming a circle, weaving in and out with dizzying speed, looking as though they could collide at any moment, but of course they never did.

A white ribbon fluttered loose and floated between the dancers. Suddenly Eustace remembered. The Great Snow Dance. In Narnia. The first time he saw Pole dance. The snowballs they would throw in between the dancers. The fast whirling steps and joyful movements. The rhythmic drumming. The Christmas dance. The blessing upon the land and the gathering. The wild freedom of celebrating life. The warmth and peace of going home afterwards.

It was all here. Narnia was all here. In their world. And Pole was the key. Somehow.

He mulled this idea over for a while. Clearly, this needed much more thought, when he was more clear-headed than now. For now, the only thing that made sense was that Pole's hips had some kind of magic of their own, because such fluctuations were surely not humanly possible.

"Scrubb!" She was still breathing rapidly when she came over to greet him. "What did you think?"

_You have magical hips._ "Not bad," said Eustace, shrugging.

"Want to get some fresh air?" asked Pole, untying the flouncy overskirt and dropping it to the lawn.

"Please." Anything to get her away from bloody Marcus.

"Follow me."

It was a bit of a walk, Eustace found, wherever Pole was leading him. They wound along the street for a bit, side by side. She explained to him along the way the purpose of the Kumina, a dance performed ceremonially at weddings and funerals and births and other important occasions. It was an expression of their community, a way to come together and tell their story as one, and give a blessing to the life that was beginning or ending. This too reminded Eustace of Narnia.

He followed her across lawns and through little gatherings of palms, where the sight of her winding figure ahead of him reminded him vividly of the way she'd lead him and Tirian so effortlessly through the forest. Finally they came to a wide bank of sea grass and heard the distant sigh of the breakers. The beach, then. It was quite still and dark, here, with only the moon to shed light on the dark expanse of sand and shore. They stepped over the packed dunes and sloping shoreline toward the water.

Like nights on Dragon Island, lonely and watching...

Eustace shook his head, images and thoughts swirling about in a blur, and concentrated hard on Pole before him. She was looking at him with a curious expression on her face. Her white dress shone like a beacon. The ribbons in her hair stood out against the dark curls. He was not noticing these in a scientific way in the slightest. She looked like a bride. Not his bride.

Someone else's. Hang it all.

"Pole," he said thickly. "What was the cake bit about?"

"Which part?" asked Pole.

"When you cut the cake, and won. And that means you, well, Antoine said at least, that you'll be the first to marry."

He heard a snort of laughter. "That old superstition? It's not as if it will actually come true."

"What if it did?"

Jill stared at him. "What's gotten into you, Scrubb?"

"I just don't like the idea. I don't want you marrying anyone else. And especially not Marcus." The words were rushing out of him before he could catch them.

"You're being ridiculous. So what if I marry Marcus, or someone else, or no one? What's it to you?"

"You—you _can't _get married, Pole! I'm in love with you!"

His jaw hung open as he realized what he'd said. There was no taking it back, even if he wished to. And the worst part about it was the realization, when he looked apprehensively at Jill's face and saw the expression of shock there, that it was true. He was totally and utterly in love with Jill Pole.

She was shaking her head. _Laughing._ "You're drunk, Scrubb. You won't remember any of this in the morning."

"I'm sober enough to know how I feel about you. I should have told you this years ago, but I was too thick to see it before. Jill Pole, I _love_ you."

"That's the rum talking. You don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying. I knew it years ago. You've always had my back, and I took it for granted that you'd always be there. And now..." Eustace exhaled. "Now I wish we could be side by side instead."

Jill huddled with her arms wrapped around herself, as if suddenly feeling a chill. "Scrubb, by morning, you'll forget you even said any of this and we'll just go back to the way it's been for years."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Pole, I'll say this to you every morning if you'll listen. I'm not going to change my mind." He meant every word of it. If every morning he could see her beside him and tell her how much she meant to him...

"And it took seeing me dance with Marcus to make you say this?" Pole gave a shuddering laugh. "I had to watch you for _years_ grow more and more infatuated with a woman who was never going to love you back. I knew you were never going to look at me the way you looked at her. And now that you can't have her, you think you want me? No, Scrubb. I am not your consolation prize. I won't be your fallback. I've _had_ it."

He had waited too long. Eustace swallowed the rising lump in his throat and gripped her shoulder tighter. Even if it was too late, even if he'd had his chance, over and over, and missed every one of them, even though he was being a selfish pig, Jill Pole had to know the truth. "I'm sorry, Pole. It wasn't fair to you. I've been an idiot for too long. I've made a right mess of things with you. You have every right to call me an ass for the way I've behaved these past months and years. And you've been a brick, putting up with me all this time. You'll never be my consolation prize."

"And Mary? What about all those years you thought you loved her? Did you just suddenly chuck all of those feelings out the window?"

"I was nine when I met her. Nine, Pole. It's something I should have outgrown years ago. It was an infatuation, awe, gratitude, but not love." His voice dropped several decibels. "I know it wasn't love because it's nothing like what I feel for you."

"And it took seven glasses of rum and a wedding to get it out of you?" Her expression was still disbelieving, uncertain.

Eustace shook his head. "No. It took me waking up and seeing what a thoughtless idiot I've been, and realizing that if I ever lost you...I'd go crazy, Pole."

He let go of her shoulders and looked away from the sight of her stricken face. This was not at all how he wanted this to go.

He heard her sigh. "Can you understand how very hard it is to believe all this? After..." She trailed off, but he knew exactly what she meant.

"I know," he said, nodding. "I was an ass. I'm being an ass now, bothering you like this when you don't feel the same. I know it's too late. You've had every reason to move on, and you have. You've got amazing and wonderful things ahead of you and I have no right to be part of that, not after how I've behaved." Eustace at last glanced at Jill, unable to keep from seeing her reaction no matter how much it would hurt. "And if you walk away and straight back to Marcus, I have no one to blame but myself."

He saw Jill's eyes begin to shimmer. Aslan, was she _crying?_ "I...I... I don't want to go back to Marcus, Scrubb," she muttered, swiping at her face with her free hand. "I want to believe everything you've said is true. I've wanted to hear you say these things for _years_. " She sniffled hard, her brows drawing together. "I can't help loving you. But maybe I'm just being an idiot if I do."

Eustace felt panic and hope and desperation well up inside him all at once. He'd made Jill cry. Again. Yet he still had a chance, if he didn't muck this up again.

She was dropping his hand, looking away, and he fished desperately around in his pockets for his standard response to weeping women, but came up empty-handed.

"Pole, don't..."

She just sniffled harder, and he could see the tell-tale tears starting to fall over her cheeks. They shone in the moonlight. He had to do something. Clearly him talking was just making things worse. He had no peppermints. Not even a handkerchief.

So Eustace did the only thing he could do. He took her in his arms and kissed her.

Apparently, this was also an appropriate way to comfort emotionally overwrought, sniveling females weeping over men who were hopelessly in love with them.

He was kissing _Pole._ And she was kissing him back. It was wet, yes, because she was still crying, but oh so sweet at the same time, as she leaned into the kiss eagerly. Her lips were soft and pliant, and his hands were on her hips, magic hips, he was convinced now, yes they _definitely_ were working magic on him, and he was drunk on her, hang the rum, _she_ was intoxicating...

"Scrubb," she gasped in between kisses. "You'd better mean it."

"Couldn't be more serious," he said as soon as they stopped for breath again.

She tilted her head back to look straight into his eyes. "Then you'll have to say it again. Tomorrow."

Eustace looked straight back at her. "I'll say it as many times as you'll hear it."

This seemed to be the right answer.

* * *

_How much of an idiot can you be, Pole? Thinking he actually meant all those things. He was drunk. Dead drunk. And now..._

Jill marched into her room, where Eustace was curled on his side, arm flung over his head. In one hand she held a glass of water, in the other a cup and saucer with ginger tea and two aspirin. She would take care of him, like she always had, but damned if she was going to let him break her heart again.

_It was just jealousy over Marcus, not love for me. Just watch._

She set the teacup down beside him. "Scrubb. You should take something..."

He groaned. "What time is it? Ugh...what was in that rum?"

Typical. She set down the glass of water with a thunk so hard, it splashed onto the dressing table. _I am such a fool. I'll just go see if Marcus is free for lunch!_

"It wasn't what was in the rum," she said tartly. "It's how much rum you put in you."

"Never again," he moaned, reaching for the water. "Ow. I shouldn't have moved that quick. Hand me that aspirin, Pole."

Lucy's dirk could come in handy just about then. Luckily for Scrubb, it was an ocean away. "You'll forget next time," she said through gritted teeth.

"I won't forget this headache. Can you make the room less bright? Bloody Jamaican sunshine."

That was it. Clearly last night had been a mistake. A giant, inexcusable, idiotic mistake. "We're a fine pair of idiots, aren't we? You with your Puddleglum-sized hangover, and I for actually thinking you were half sober last night. Bloody hell, Scrubb. You can go hang for all I care. I'm ringing Marcus."

She stomped to the door. _Stupid stupid stupid._..

"Jill Pole, I'm an idiot who loves you more than I can say."

She paused in the doorway. That was a start...

"And I didn't forget a word I said last night...ow...not a single word. I meant every last one of them. I love you like a crazy man, and I should have said so a long, long time ago. Come back? And don't ring Marcus."

Jill sat down on the bed beside him, exhaling. "Anything else?"

"I'm sorry for how I've behaved all this time."

"And?"

He cracked open a bleary eye. "'m sorry I didn't say something earlier this morning."

She crossed her arms. "I'll hold off on ringing Marcus. For now. Drink your tea. It will settle your stomach."

He sat up warily and sipped at the tea. "Why are you always so nice to me, Pole? I don't deserve it."

"I'm still figuring that out myself." Jill contemplated his scruffy hair, five-o'clock (twelve-o'clock?) shadow, and half-unbuttoned shirt (he had lost the tie a long time ago). "You're a sight, Eustace Scrubb."

He mumbled something that sounded like, "Confounded rum." A weak grin ghosted across his face. "I'll make it up to you, Pole. Soon as I've found my sea legs again."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't think you're going to make it to lunch today."

"Probably not," he admitted. "But sooner or later we'll have to find time to get it done. Maybe later," he said, wincing as he leaned over to set the teacup down.

"Get what done?"

"The wedding of course. I mean, your whole family's already here, and you already have all the dresses. Isn't this the perfect time to have it? Do you need a little while to make all those cakes?"

Jill stared at him. She opened her mouth. No words came out.

"And you can borrow some of the wedding doodads from Esther, right? We should be able to throw a wedding together by Christmas, don't you think?"

She swallowed and tried again. "Scrubb, you...you're...are you _proposing?_ Because you sure have a funny way of doing it!"

His hand found hers. "I guess I am. That is...if...if you _want _to get married. To me. Soon, here. Errr. This is not very romantic, is it?"

"No," she agreed, feeling a huge smile spreading over her face all the same. "But it's a perfectly Scrubb proposal."

* * *

From: Jill Pole Scrubb  
Oranjestad  
Aruba

To: Ruby Clark  
Walk Hill St  
Forest Hills  
Boston

Dear Ruby,

I have just had the most wonderful Christmas in Jamaica, and am on my way to Aruba now. I will post this just as soon as I find a place that sends mail international. I hope you and Tom had a lovely holiday as well.

I cannot thank you enough for your advice and wisdom on the subject of men who drag their feet. As it turns out, it _did_ take yelling, vomiting, and threats of leaving, but in the end, Scrubb figured out that he really loved me and had for a long time. As this revelation came about under the effects of copious rum, I doubted at first how sincere he was, but he promised to say it to me every morning as long as I would hear it. And he has. I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing it.

And that's how, on Christmas Eve, after ten mornings of telling me he loved me, we were married in Kingston. My parents couldn't have been more pleased. All of my family on my father's side was able to attend, since everyone was already in town for the holidays and my cousin Esther's wedding. We have sent announcements to the whole family, and hope to see some of them in England after a brief honeymoon in Aruba. Of course, Eustace will go running off at some point to look for more endemic island reptiles, but now I am sure he'll always come back to me again.

It is so strange, to be so deliriously happy when I have tried to convince myself for so long that I wasn't _unhappy._ I never knew how much happier I could get until I was finally able to tell Scrubb how much I loved him, for the first time, knowing that he _wanted_ to hear me say it. And we've been telling each other ever since, in between traveling and quarreling, but you know our quarrels are never very serious, and we have gotten very good at making up again, even more so than before. To think, we could have been making up like this all along! And yet, now that I think about it, it's better that we come to this older, knowing what we want and being sure that we want each other and no one else. I might be able to describe it better if I didn't feel it so strongly - but I think you understand what I mean, Ruby. It was worth the wait.

I hope to see you all very soon, and wish you the same joy for the New Year that we have been blessed with. All my love to Tom.

Your dear friend,  
Jill Pole Scrubb

* * *

From: Eustace Scrubb  
Oranjestad  
Aruba

To: Julian Pole  
Whitehall  
St Mary's Parish  
Jamaica

Dear Julian,

By the time this reaches you, it will probably be New Year. So, Happy New Year to you and Elizabeth. Good luck with the campaign. It looks like Manley has a good shot at winning this time.

I developed some of the pictures in Kingston from the jaunts we took. There is a perfectly splendid one of that crocodile by the Black River, which I will include with this letter. You can see from the narrow shape of its snout and the visible lower teeth when its mouth is shut that it is in fact the more common _Crocodylia_ and not the _Alligator_. I saw quite a bit of the latter in the Everglades, of course, and from a very short distance on some occasions. I would have liked to get up closer to this chap to see if its dermal pressure receptors were any larger or smaller than crocodiles in other regions. Maybe the next time I come to Jamaica, I can investigate this further. (I am also hoping that future visits will allow me to see the Jamaican Boa, or Yellow Snake as it is called there, for myself. I was very disappointed that we did not get the chance to see this remarkable creature in action. I have an idea where we might find it next time, though. Don't tell Jill.)

The voyage is going well and we are getting along swimmingly, so to speak. Being married is not so different from being not married, except that you know precisely where you stand with the woman you love. We've had fifteen years of getting used to each other, so we know how to manage pretty well by now, but...well, I guess it _is_ different. In all the right ways.

She's been a brick about helping with my notes from Drumheller — most girls would put their foot down about _Albertasauri_ during their honeymoon — but Jill knows me. Probably better than anyone I know. It's just one of the things I like best about her; she doesn't just put up with me, she does what she can to pitch in, too.

You should see the pictures she's been drawing! I haven't seen anything like them before. All sorts of things — her family, the wedding, Jamaica, the sea, and other places we've been to together before. You'd almost swear these pictures could move, that's how much life they have in them. If I can convince her to send one sometime, you'll see for yourself. You'd be impressed.

I should thank you again for your hospitality and really for everything. If I hadn't gotten to know you and Elizabeth so well, I might never have believed that two people could be together for so long and still be so happy together. I told you a little bit about my parents,but I didn't tell you that they sleep in separate bedrooms. I've never heard them tell _anyone_ they loved them, much less each other. I guess I thought all marriages ended up that way. I'm not saying this as an excuse, you understand. It's not. But coming to Jamaica opened my eyes to a lot of things.

I'm still seriously considering the Oxford offer. We'll see when we go to England in a week or two. It's strange now that I have another person to consult for this sort of thing, but it's nice at the same time. Jill seems to quite like the idea of turning a nook of whatever house we get into her studio and taking more classes in scientific art and maybe someday teaching there as well. We might go on digs together too - who knows?

We should be arriving in Aruba tomorrow. I'll write again before we leave for England and let know you about all the reptiles I find on the island.

Your grateful son-in-law,

Eustace Scrubb

* * *

**A/N: **_Happy Endings for all! ::hands out happy endings indiscriminately:: I hope you enjoyed it!_


End file.
